


The Locked Room

by waterandsilver



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Alex Rider Big Bang, Detective Noir, Gen, Murder Mystery, Mystery, mild warnings for the kind of descriptions of death/bodies that you would expect in a murder mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2019-10-20 10:37:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17620874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterandsilver/pseuds/waterandsilver
Summary: Alan Blunt has been murdered. Shot inside a locked room.A top Scotland Yard detective gathers the five main suspects - Mrs Jones, the SAS Sergeant, Wolf, Ben Daniels, and Alex Rider - into one room, with the intention of not letting them leave until the killer among them is found.





	1. The Body

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to the lovely [wolfern](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/2547026/wolfern) for making such gorgeous art for this fic!! And thank you of course to everyone on the AR server (especially Tess and Nem) for organising and participating in this bigbang. Love you all ❤️❤️

 

Alan Blunt was a careful man. It was the reason he had lived so long. He was, and had always been, meticulously careful, with a reputation for leaving no loose ends - for cutting them off, and viciously. He was the longest reigning head of Special Operations, and he attributed it to that.

Yet despite all his care, Alan Blunt was going to die tonight. Because he had done a great wrong, and Fate was finally catching up with him.

It was late, gone 10 p.m., and Blunt was still in his office, where he had been for hours. His old age had not prevented him from working late into the night, or affected his mental stamina in any way. He needed very little sleep, and his wife no longer stayed awake waiting for him to return in the evenings. He had spent so many hours in this grey box of a room, that it had sometimes occurred to him that it was quite likely that he would die here. He imagined a heart attack, or perhaps a stroke.

But that was not the end that was scheduled for Alan Blunt.

Tonight, the file that was preoccupying him was one that he had read hundreds of times. He could probably recite it by heart. He knew its ins and outs; there was nothing more to be learned from it. And yet this was the file that, time and again, Blunt found himself coming back to, during these late nights. Especially in the last few months.

It was supposed to be over now. But he was unable to let it go. And who could blame him? The results... they had been like nothing that MI6 had ever seen... they couldn't just let all that potential go to waste. Blunt couldn't let that happen...

His pen seemed to move by itself, jotting down notes.

The digital clock on his desk had just flicked to 10:08 p.m. when the door opened. Pressurised air wheezed out of the hinges, and Blunt glanced up, his brows already drawing together into a frown. To enter his office required a particular code, that only a few people knew. He had specifically asked not to be disturbed tonight, and it irked him when his subordinates disobeyed him. It was a sign of weak authority. If he couldn't trust his secretaries to do something as simple as that, how could he trust them with such sensitive information, that he dealt with on a daily basis?

But when Blunt's eyes met the figure in the doorway, he saw that it was not, in fact, his secretary. And he knew instantly that this was not a cursory visit.

Blunt was not a man of great movement, but all at once, he was perfectly still. His visitor entered the room quiet as a shadow. The door made no noise as it shut behind them.

"You don't have an appointment," said Blunt.

"I won't be needing one."

And then he was staring down the barrel of a gun.

Alan Blunt had dealt in Death for a long, long time. He had commissioned it and prevented it, analysed it and concealed it. He had gazed into the eyes of countless bodies. Death had been his lifelong colleague, walking by his side throughout the entirety of his career, with loyalty that was hard to come by, in these circles.

And he recognised Death, now, as it finally came for him.

There was a panic button underneath his desk, only inches from his fingers. Guards could arrive within a minute. Within less.

But it would not save him. He realised this, as he looked into the eyes of his soon-to-be-murderer. There was nothing but grim commitment there. Blunt could tell that they were prepared to deal with the consequences - because they  _would_  be caught, and both of them knew it. There was no way that they would get away with this. But they were still here, and they were still going to pull the trigger.

Blunt opened his mouth to ask the obvious questions.  _How? Why?_ But they died on his tongue. It occurred to him that he already knew the answers. He didn't know exactly how they had gained access to his office, but with their skills, and their connections, it did not surprise him that they had.

And he knew why they wanted him dead.

He couldn't get away, and there was nothing left for him to solve. His job was done.

And so Alan Blunt simply put down his pen, and gazed into the gun's dark black eye, waiting for the end.

 

 

The Detective was the first on the scene.

The body was found with its eyes still open. A single red tear had wept from the bullet wound in the dead centre of the forehead, and trickled down the left cheek. The victim had died instantly, and the blood flow had immediately ceased. The exit wound, however, was messier. He was missing the back of his head, and blood had sprayed onto the wall behind him, marring the pale grey paintwork that had been immaculate for so many years.

When the body was discovered, _rigor mortis_ had not yet set in, but the body had lost much of its warmth - although the Detective had heard that Alan Blunt had been an infamously cold man.

A quick and simple death, for a man of such dynastic influence. No gunshot had been heard. The room was quiet and serene. The potted plant on the window-sill was flourishing, its soil still damp from afternoon watering, and the clock ticked steadily away on his desk.

It was hardly the bloodiest crime scene that the Detective had set eyes upon. As soon as the police had received the call -  _Alan Blunt, dead!_   _Shot_ _in his office! Murder at the Royal and General Bank!_ \- there had been no question that there was only one man for the case. The Detective was, indisputably, Scotland Yard's best. Eyes had widened and whispers had flown as he had walked into the reception of the Royal and General, and the employees of this "bank" had seen a  _lot_  that had shocked them, tonight.

Yes, a simple death. But as soon as the Detective stepped into the room, he knew within seconds, that this one was a lot more complicated than it looked. The simplicity of the crime scene made it more, not less, difficult to solve. It should have been much, much harder than this, to kill Alan Blunt. The various levels of MI6's security had failed to stop this killer, and the surveillance footage had mysteriously disappeared.

As cameras flashed and forensic experts moved like ghosts in their white suits, the Detective made his way slowly to the body. It was the look on Blunt's face that confirmed it, more than anything. There was not a hint of surprise. He knew his murderer, and he knew them well.

Yes. The Detective was certain.

This was an inside job.

Blunt's chalky, lifeless cheek had come to rest upon the file that he had been reading. With gloved hands, the Detective carefully peeled paper from skin. When he saw the name on the front of the file, his face darkened.

"What is it, sir?" asked his assistant, who had worked with him long enough to recognise that look.

"We need to find out who Alex Rider is, and locate him straight away."

 


	2. The Suspects

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I have no real excuse for taking so long to post another chapter. Except that I was dragged into the Real Life fandom, which I would not recommend. Sub-par plot. Waaaaaay too much drama.
> 
> Credits once again to [wolfern](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/2547026/wolfern) for the fantastic art!!

Mrs Jones was the first to arrive. She stepped into the room with the grace of a long-reigning queen. Her expression betrayed neither surprise nor discomfort. She cast an eye over the set-up, and one eyebrow rose.

"Only five chairs? I think you'll find Alan had more enemies than that, Detective. Unless you haven't done your homework."

The Detective offered her a smile, and gestured towards the seats, which had been arranged in neat semi-circle, a layout reminiscent of an Alcoholic’s Anonymous meeting or perhaps a small session of group therapy. This interrogation room was buried deep in the bowels of Scotland Yard. It was designed to be as uninteresting as possible, so that its inhabitants would want to get out as soon as they could. There were no windows, no decorations, not even a clock on the wall. Nothing at all that might entertain the eye. There were only the chairs and the Detective.

"Please take a seat, Mrs Jones,” said the Detective. “I assure you that I have done my homework  _thoroughly_."

In the twenty-four hours since the body was discovered, nobody in MI5, MI6 or the metropolitan police had gotten much sleep. Countless minds had poured over the facts, the theories, the possibilities. And it had been narrowed down to exactly five people. Five suspects.

Jones looked at him, holding his gaze for a moment, in which the detective got the distinct impression of a lioness sizing up a potential piece of prey, deciding whether it was worth the effort. Then, she simply crossed the room and sat down in one of the chairs. Interestingly, she chose the furthest seat from the door. Trying to show that she had nothing to prove? No need to be close to the exit?

Mrs Jones crossed one leg over another, rested her hands upon her knees, and said nothing more.

 

 

Second to arrive was the Sergeant. The file had contained his real name, of course. But everyone in this room knew him as the man who trained soldiers and spies at the SAS compound located in the Brecon Beacons.

The Detective had pondered that title over the last twenty-four hours: the  _Sergeant_. In Latin, it meant "the one who serves". To what end had this man served Alan Blunt?

He wore clothes that were both military and smart: combats with a fitted khaki blazer. An array of pins gleamed from his lapel, testimonials to his dedication and loyalty. And yet when the investigators were narrowing down the pool of suspects, during the long and arduous hours of the night, the Sergeant had remained in the pool at each stage. There were reasons that he was sitting in this room. Perhaps not the primary suspect. But a suspect, nonetheless.

He paused before stepping across the threshold of the door, glancing back over his shoulder. Resistance in his body language. Clearly, he didn’t wish to enter.

"Is someone going to tell me what's going on?"

"Please take a seat, Sergeant," the Detective said pleasantly. "All will be explained in due time."

Still, the Sergeant hesitated. But then he looked past the Detective and caught the eye of Mrs Jones. Although she made no gesture towards him, and he made none towards her, her presence in itself must have been some kind of reassurance, because the SAS instructor took three abrupt strides across the room and took a seat. The closest seat to the door.

 

 

 

Third to arrive was the spy. Well, technically, there would be several people in this room who could be considered “spies”. But Ben Daniels really was the quintessential spy. A secret agent in his prime: late twenties, clean-shaven, alert, fit and good-looking. However, there was an innate kind of earnestness about Daniels, in his body language, in the way he talked. He was likeable, and therefore he gave the impression that he was trustworthy. The Detective supposed that quality must be very valuable in his line of work – in throwing off suspicion.

Daniels was cautious and hesitant when he arrived, like the Sergeant had been. But unlike the Sergeant, he did not ask questions. He undoubtedly had many that he wished to ask; the police officers tasked with bringing the suspects in were under strict instruction to keep their lips sealed. But Daniels was evidently used to this level of secrecy. He stared for a moment, taking in the sight of the room and its occupants, before resigning himself and wordlessly stepping inside.

Of course, as the quintessential spy, Daniels was also intelligent. He had probably already worked out that there was no point in trying to leave – or trying to convince anyone of his innocence.

There was another hesitation when he approached the ring of chairs. Should he sit beside Jones, beside the Sergeant, or straight down the middle? The Detective watched with interest. Daniels’ file had been an interesting read. Something about him felt a little _too_ clean. The Detective didn't buy Daniels’ wide-eyed honesty – not when he had both the skills and the motivation for the crime at hand. The Detective already suspected that Daniels’ earnestness was a façade. Would it would start to slip when the pressure began to build? Or would it crack completely?

Daniels took his seat beside Mrs Jones.

 

 

Next to arrive was the solider, and he was the least happy about it.

“No! I want to know what’s going on! Get your fucking hands off me! Is this something to do with ’Six? Fucking feels like them… bastards… tell them I said _no_ , already, for fuck’s _sake_ —!”

The door opened once again, and the source of the shouting came into view. Wolf was exactly as his file described. He was the same age as Daniels, and the Detective knew from their files that they used to be rather close when they were training together. But now, it seemed that they couldn’t be more different. Daniels had learned the art of carefully masking his emotions, whereas Wolf’s face darkened as soon as he set eyes upon the room. It was almost refreshing, in a way, for the Detective. Spies tended to make his job more difficult, with their secrets and their lies. Soldiers could grate on him, at times, but at least they were upfront about things.

“What’s going on? Who are you?”

“Please take a seat, Wolf. Everything will be explained shortly.”

“Ben? Sarge? What’s going _on_? What the hell are we all doing here?”

“Just sit down, Wolf,” Daniels said quietly. “I’m sure we’ll be told what’s happening soon.”

Wolf’s brow drew together with confusion, and his mouth opened again, but the Sergeant cut in across him.

“Sit down, Wolf,” he repeated, but with a lot more authority than Daniels, enough to snap Wolf’s mouth shut. “Sit down and have some bloody patience, for Christ's sake. I want to know what’s going on as much as you do, but we don’t always get what we want. You should know that.” He glanced briefly at the Detective. There was no warmth in his gaze. “The cops are behind this. It’s not a kidnapping. And believe me, if they don’t have a damn good reason for dragging us out of our beds in the middle of the night, you’ll have to wait your turn to drag them to court, because I’ll be doing it first.”

Quite a speech, the Detective thought.

It had the desired effect. Wolf still hesitated, for a moment. But then, wincing as if every step pained his feet, he made his way across the room and took his seat beside the Sergeant. Now, the only chair left empty was the one in the centre of the room. That was very fitting. After all, the fifth and final suspect was the one who tied them all together.

 

 

At long last, he arrived. There must have been at least half an hour between Wolf arriving and the door opening once again. At once, the Detective’s interest was piqued. This was the one he had been waiting for.

What looked like a fairly average teenage boy stood in the doorway to the interrogation room. His hair was fair, slightly overgrown, and unbrushed, as if he had just gotten out of bed. He wore a hoodie and a scowl. It was a disarming appearance, and the Detective instantly steeled himself against judging the book by its cover. Blunt’s corpse had quite literally been found bleeding onto this boy’s file. And in the past day, the Detective has memorised every detail of those pages.

This was not an ordinary teenager. This was a venomous snake living in the skin of a child. This was a killer.

“Is somebody going to tell me what’s going on?” Alex Rider glanced at the Detective, looking him up and down, before moving onto the more familiar faces in the room. “Mrs Jones? Wolf? _Ben?_ What _is_ this?”

“Sit down, Rider,” the Detective said coolly. “Now that you’ve arrived, we can begin.”

Rider stared at him with open suspicion and, already, the first inklings of dislike. “What do you—”

“Just sit down, Cub,” Wolf interrupted. “For fuck’s sake. We’ve been here hours already. Just sit down so we can get on with – whatever this is.”

“Please, Alex,” said Daniels more quietly. “Let’s just get this over with, so we can leave as soon as possible, yeah?”

Daniels’ words persuaded him; the Detective saw it, and took a note of it. Yes, the file had mentioned that there was a bond between them. The Detective would keep a close eye on that. Still, Rider moved with considerable reluctance as he took his place in the dead centre of the room.

Finally, they could begin.

“You are undoubtedly wondering why you have been gathered here so suddenly in the night. Rest assured, the decision to bring you five together was not taken lightly. In fact, many at Scotland Yard do not agree with it at all.”

“This is sounding promising,” Rider muttered.

The Detective decided to cut straight to the point.

“Alan Blunt is dead.”

The effect of those words upon the room was quite fascinating.

Mrs Jones: nothing. Her cool expression did not so much as waver. It confirmed what the Detective already suspected: she already knew. It was hardly surprising, given her connections, although the police had done everything they could to keep it out of public knowledge. The others, however, seemed not to have been aware. The Sergeant: lips parting in shock. Daniels: lips _tightening_ into a hard, straight line. Wolf: mouth falling open, glancing immediately at the other members of the room, as if searching for a bloody knife protruding from one of their pockets. And Alex Rider: a few rapid blinks, followed by his gaze quickly falling to the floor, hiding whatever emotion they might contain.

“He was murdered last night,” the Sergeant continued. “The evidence has been exhumed. The killer had access to resources and information that were only available to a limited number of people. And of those people, an even smaller number had a motive.

“One of you killed Alan Blunt. And none of you are leaving this room until I discover the identity of his murderer."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: the interrogation begins.
> 
> (I promise I will solve the actual mystery before we all die of old age.)


End file.
